


Utterly Impossible and Sinfully Large

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And Greg is impatient, Established Relationship, Kitchen disaster as sexual aid, M/M, Mycroft is a polite top, Socks, grumpy Mycroft, sexy Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 10:16:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12746301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: I was on Tumblr and @mottlemoth suggested a thing. This is what I wrote.





	Utterly Impossible and Sinfully Large

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mottlemoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/gifts).



> I literally did not have time to edit this except on the fly, as I wrote. It is probably RIDDLED with errors and typos. So sorry. It's utter trash anyway. But I couldn't stop thinking about it and wrote it in between tasks at work on a very busy last day before my holiday. Mottlemoth, dear Moth, you deserve better than this, but I gift it to you anyway, you gorgeous thing you.

**Utterly Impossible and Sinfully Large**

 

          “This has been an utterly _impossible_ day,” Mycroft groused, hanging up his Chesterfield and umbrella, and crossing the hall to his home office. He was ready to shed the last vestiges of the outside world and slip into the comfort of his home and the arms of his beloved; it was a rare day when he was home before eight, and to come home to the smells of food and the knowledge that he was to have company this evening made him want to weep in gratitude. Or it would, if he ever wept.

          “Hey gorgeous,” his lover called, “I’m in the kitchen, just putting the finishing touches on dinner. C’mere and I’ll give you a sinfully large glass of that wine we brought back from Tuscany and a kiss to make it all better.”

          Normally “putting the finishing touches on dinner” entailed plating takeaway before eating in front of the television in the lounge. They were neither of them particularly domestic, every day had the potential to run on well past sixteen hours, and cooking just didn’t happen except for lazy Sunday mornings, and the odd birthday. Having locked his briefcase and laptop in the safe, Mycroft took off his suit coat and folded it neatly over the back of his desk chair, and rolled up his sleeves. There was every possibility that he would be called into an emergency Skype session with yet another highly strung official, and it was best to leave his coat available for easy donning.

          He hoped they weren’t going to be eating anything too spicy, as his GERD flared worse during high-stress weeks like this one had been; Thai or Indian would murder his esophagus this evening. As he left his office he caught the scent of tomato sauce and garlic and felt his mouth water; he did love Italian. Loosening his tie, he entered the kitchen and stopped short in dismay, all of his OCD tendencies screaming to the forefront.

          It was a wreck. There were pots, pans and utensils everywhere. Sauce splattered up the usually pristine white subway tile backsplash. There was a scorched pan sitting next to the overflowing sink, Mycroft sucked in a terse breath—he would simply not be able to keep from committing murder if the Carrara marble countertop was marked.

          “Gregory…” he said weakly, trying to muster calm and patience.

          “There’s my beautiful man,” his boyfriend said, turning from sprinkling fresh herbs over large, shallow bowls of soup. “Just in time, give these a minute to cool and we can enjoy soup with some wine while the mains finish in the oven.” He dusted his hands off on his cords and picked up the aforementioned large glass of wine, which _was_ gratifyingly generous, and walked across the culinary battlefield that Mycroft normally called a kitchen. “You look like you could use this—” He held out the wine, smiling his heart-lifting and all too mesmerizing smile, “Thought I’d best circumvent mass murder of Cabinet officials by cooking you up a little something special.”

          “You got my text then,” Mycroft said dryly. He still maintained that the general public would have _thanked_ him for quietly obliterating the wide-spread idiocy in government.

          “Wreck your liver with this red instead of going on a killing spree,” Greg suggested, dark-brown eyes alight with amusement. “If nothing else it will save me from an arse load of paperwork.”

          “Not even a little tiny murder?” Mycroft ~~pouted~~ inquired reasonably. Although really his thoughts of wholesale slaughter were being nicely derailed by the sight of his partner in his socked feet; hair even more spiky than usual, cheeks flushed by his labours. The neck of his pale pink Oxford was open, showing the enticing hollow of his throat, lightly glazed in sweat; his tempting forearms were bared by rolled sleeves, light catching on the dark silver-gray hairs which lightly furred said tempting arms. God, the man was glorious. _And all mine_ , Mycroft thought with greedy delight.

          “Wait until after dessert and then we’ll talk about how tiny this murder is going to be.” Greg sat down their wineglasses on the end of the island and ran his hands up Mycroft’s chest, eyes bright, “Welcome home, love.” He rose up slightly on tiptoe to reach Mycroft’s mouth, one hand curling around his tie and tugging him close, mouth curling up in that smile that devastated Mycroft every time. “God, I missed you.”

          “And I you,” Mycroft breathed, closing the last bit of space between them and letting his hands run down his lover’s sides and then curve around his hips to grab hold of his spectacular arse and give it a passionate and respectful squeeze. Greg’s tongue tasted of wine, his lips were slick with the truly excellent olive oil he’d unearthed from the little used larder, and the sweetness of his breath eased something in Mycroft’s chest.

          Greg groaned into his mouth, and just like that the kiss went from a loving and sweet welcome home to a quick-fire explosion. He growled low in his throat when Greg rocked against him, trying to shove his hands down inside the cords and get at that work of art his boyfriend called a bum. Fingers fumbling with the _completely unnecessary and infuriatingly well-fitted_ belt, Mycroft sucked Greg’s lower lip into his mouth and savoured the groan. He did some moaning of his own when the other man’s hard hands rucked up his shirt and slid over his torso, brushing his nipples and then circled around him to pull him closer.

          “My,” Greg breathed huskily, short, blunt nails scratching down his back, drawing shivers out of him as they passed over the small of his back, and going on to do some arse-grabbing of their own, “I made dinner…”

          “Sod dinner,” Mycroft said, getting the trousers open and shoving them down, along with the boxers that barred his way to glory. “I’d much rather eat you.”

          “Fuck me,” Greg sighed happily on a groan, unbuttoning Mycroft’s shirt with impatient fingers.

          “I intend to.” Mycroft reached a long arm over—without letting go of his man, and turned the oven off. “Best not have the fire brigade called out again, one time was embarrassing enough.”

          “I think you secretly love your new reputation,” Greg suggested, ducking his head to suck Mycroft’s nipple into his mouth. He mumbled, “Although I am a bit tired of the Fire Chief and his minions calling me Inspector Hot Pants.”

          “It _does_ erode your image of breezy efficiency,” Mycroft allowed, palming his lover's hot erection in one hand and gripping the back of his neck with the other. “But darling, your pants are very, very hot if only by virtue of the man wearing them, so I’m afraid you must live with the sobriquet.”

          “Who says sobriquet?” Greg laughed, going breathless when Mycroft’s thumb rode the crease of his arse, trailing down and feathering over the curve of his buttocks. “Bloody hell, My, do that again.”

          Being nothing if not agreeable and accommodating, Mycroft did, and Greg rather lost the thread of conversation as his lover teased him. A shift of his stance, a more intimate positioning of Mycroft’s hand, and it was Mycroft’s turn to stumble, “My dear... have you already prepared?”

          “Knew you’d had a bloody awful day,” Greg said, shuddering as the tip of Mycroft’s thumb breached him. “I thought you might like to take me—” He laughed breathily, and then groaned, “Although I thought it would be after dinner.”

          Desire rocked him, sent him sliding to his knees on the dark hardwood floor, regardless of his middle-aged joints or his perfectly pressed trousers. Greg was a generous and lusty lover, but it was rare that he bottomed… _only ever for you_ , as he’d told Mycroft after the first time. Not hesitating, Mycroft took him in his mouth, swallowed him to the root, jerking a curse from Greg, and rolled the other man's bollocks in one hand while the other continued to ply feathering strokes and gentle forays to the loosened ring of muscle.

          Something crashed to the floor, unheeded by both men, as Mycroft slipped two fingers inside Greg’s body, Greg's arms sweeping the worktop as he sought purchase. “Yes…” Greg gasped, jerking a little into Mycroft’s hot mouth, “Bloody hell, My, _yes_.”

          He shoved his lover, turning him, and nudged his knees farther apart even as he tugged Greg’s pants and cords off and tossed them away. Dimly, Mycroft was aware of his own feet tangled in his trousers and briefs, and with a most marked and uncharacteristic disregard for his deeply polished, wildly expensive, hand-made Italian leather loafers, he scrabbled to toe them off. Greg’s hands were clutching desperately at the edge of the island as Mycroft bit and licked and sucked at the globes of his arse, and he actually whimpered faintly when Mycroft spread his cheeks and delved into him. “I’m…you don’t have to—I’m _ready_ —God... fuck me now, My.”

          Ghosting a warm breath over the sensitive area, Mycroft smiled when the skin of his very impatient boyfriend pebbled with gooseflesh, before he gave one last greedy swipe of his tongue, and rose to his feet and kicked off his trousers. Despite their urgency, and the preparation Greg had already done, he wasn’t going to take his lover with merely spit and the remains of lubricant. Reaching out, he snagged the nearby bottle of ludicrously pricy olive oil, recklessly pooling it into his palm. It dripped over his fingers and drizzled onto the floor unheeded as he slicked himself and then liberally smeared his hand over Greg’s hot flesh, slipping his fingers into him with ease. They both groaned, and Mycroft gave up the last of his control and lined up, easing into him.

          Despite his preparation, Greg groaned that particular deep groan he only gave when doing this, and then audibly caught his breath, fingers tightening on the marble, legs tensing. “Breathe, sweetheart,” Mycroft murmured, stroking his slick hands up Greg’s sweaty back, pushing the tail of his shirt up so he could press kisses on his spine, “Relax for me, Gregory.” As Greg breathed out, Mycroft pressed forward, one hand lightly petting Greg’s hip, the other reaching around to coax a response from his flagging erection.

          “Ohhhh, gorgeous…God, that’s so fucking---oh—oh—oh God, My, you feel incredible.”

          Mycroft let his head drop to Greg’s shoulder blade, huffing out a laugh, “You’re the one who feels incredible, my dear. I’ll have you know I’m hanging on with very little control.”

          Greg twisted to see him, reaching back to cover Mycroft’s hand on his hip, “Give me a minute to adjust, alright? And then I want you to take me, Mycroft.”

          “Greg…”

          “I mean it. I trust you not to hurt me. You’ll make it good. But My, please…we’ve both had, as you say, utterly impossible weeks, and I want you to take me hard.” He swallowed, closed his eyes, “I’ve not been able to think about anything else for the last two days, gorgeous, so please, for me?”

          His objections left him along with what little breath he had left. “How can I resist you?”

          “You can’t, as we both know.” Greg grinned, eyes wicked and dark and wonderful, and rolled his hips in an entirely unsportsmanlike manner, “Now shut up and fuck me, love.”

          Reminding himself that he was old and experienced enough not to come on the spot, no matter the provocation, Mycroft resumed tantalizing Greg’s prick with one oiled hand, as he took his time bottoming out; after a moment to allow them both to adjust, he pulled back, almost out, and then thrust home. Relishing the sound of Greg’s hoarse encouragement—dear Lord, was he ever glad he had top of the line soundproofing added to the building before he moved in—Mycroft closed his eyes and let his neck go loose. He was all sensation, senses even more hyper aware than usual, reduced down to the area they occupied, their gasping breaths, the smack of damp flesh. 

          “You can go harder, love,” Greg urged him, shuddering as he thrust forward into Mycroft’s fist, and then rocked back into his hips. “Make it as fast and filthy as you please.”

          “I don’t wish to hurt you,” Mycroft reminded him, fingers cramping on Greg’s hip, his grip hard enough to leave bruises. He tried to relax his hand, but it was the only thing keeping him grounded. A certain amount of control must be maintained, lest he hurt his beloved.

          “My, remember that night last winter when the heat went out in my flat? The stupid fight we had over the last bite of cheesecake? Remember how I pounded you into the mattress?”

          Mycroft was washed with the memory of that night—a frankly ridiculous and flaming row over dessert, flung accusations, kisses which bit and stung, and sex so sweaty and heated that they hadn’t noticed the lack of a functioning furnace— and he recalled too, how gingerly he’d moved the next day, having to endure Anthea’s knowing smirk, Sherlock’s disgusted mutterings…and it had all been gloriously worth it. “Yes, but I’m more accustomed to—”

          “Not gonna break, I promise,” Greg said, exasperated but loving, “Mycroft, love, please stop worrying about me as if I were some china doll and _take me_.”

          Still he hesitated. There were not many people, nor much in this world, that he valued personally, but Greg was absolutely top of the list.

          Greg rocked back, rolled his hips, started urging him with positive gutter language to hurry up and fuck him. When it didn’t garner the attention he desired, he growled low and frustrated, head hanging low between his shoulders. Mycroft rolled his eyes at his Gregory’s dramatics, and began moving again, putting a bit more force into it, but still keeping things nice and civil. For God’s sake, he wasn’t an _animal_.

          “Look at this mess,” Greg said suddenly, lifting an arm from the worktop and gesturing at the wreck of a kitchen. Mycroft felt his annoyance flare again—the mess was atrocious and the housekeeper wasn’t due in until Monday. Someone was going to be cleaning this up and it most certainly would not be him. “Sauce everywhere, My…and you know how it stains.”

          He growled Greg’s name, tightened the grasp of his fingers and tried to ignore the provocation.

          Greg rocked and moaned, “I ruined one of your fancy copper skillets, did you notice?”

          Mycroft set his jaw grimly and told himself that his pace hadn’t accelerated in the slightest. He faced down tyrants and warlords without losing his cool.

          “May possibly have lost a tea towel putting out the blaze,” Greg said on a moan, straightening up enough to reach back and put one hand on Mycroft’s arse and try and urge him deeper. “When I threw the pan in the sink I think I chipped that china tea pot that belonged to your grand—moooother! Ohhhh, God, yes, Myyyyy!”

          Snapping his hips furiously, Mycroft left off stroking Greg’s cock—he broke an antique Wedgwood tea pot, he could damn well do it himself—and felt his civilized self take a wary step back as his lizard brain came to the fore. He was sweaty and cranky and _people were_ _idiots_ and _his kitchen was a wreck_ , God knew dinner was _inedible_ now, _his grandmother’s best tea pot was in ruins_ , and he just needed, he needed— “Fuck! Gregory!”

          “Yes, Mycroft, oh yeah…” Hastily tugging at himself, Greg’s garbled praise broke off into deep moans as Mycroft pounded into him, glancing against his prostate about every third thrust. Their hoarse shouting rang off of the cold marble, glass and stainless steel surfaces, and Mycroft threw his head back and came with a lusty and ungainly shout when he felt Greg clenching and rippling around him, drawing a longer and more ferocious orgasm out of him than he had felt in some time.

          They didn’t move for a long time, simply hung together, draped over the island, chests heaving like overworked bellows, glowing with elation and exertion; eventually he noticed they were both shivering as their sweaty bodies cooled. Good sense prompted him to make an effort and trust to his momentarily unsteady legs. Mycroft pulled back, grimacing at the sweat, lube, spend and oil that had grown tacky and revolting between them. He looked about and found a relatively clean tea towel and moistened it; turning, he found Greg, the shameless hussy, lying on his back on the island, grinning foolishly at the custom glass pendant lighting.

          “You look mighty pleased with yourself, Inspector Hot Pants.” He tenderly wiped Greg down, stopping to press a fervent kiss to the crease of his thigh.

          Greg ran a tender hand over Mycroft's mussed hair, cupping his jaw and smiling into his eyes, “That’s what happens when my lover gives me a truly righteous rogering.”

          Mycroft blushed, “Oh, hush.”

          Greg stretched and then sat up with a grimace, no doubt feeling every one of his years after contorting on cold marble. Holding out a hand, he took the towel and turned it to a clean corner and reached for Mycroft so he could return the favour. “Talk about sinfully large, Mr. Holmes.” A peek of those incorrigible eyes up from under his lashes, “I’ll be limping all weekend.”

          “Greg—”

          He smiled, “Naw, My, honest, I’m just messing about. And even if I do get a bit sore—” he slipped down off the island and wrapped Mycroft in his arms, “It was worth it.” He licked Mycroft’s sweaty neck, which shouldn’t have been at all arousing and yet inexplicably _was_. “Dinner’s fucked…what say we take the wine and cake up to bed and recover for round two?”

          “Round two?” Mycroft nibbled on Greg’s lower lip, “And did I hear you mention cake?”

          “Big luscious beauty I picked up on my way home from the Yard,” Greg promised, grabbing the glasses and wine bottle and passing them off to Mycroft. He sauntered over to the fridge and pulled out a bakery box from the place Mycroft loved and only allowed himself to indulge in once a year, on his birthday. “And no arguing, My. We’re eating this and enjoying it and no feelings of guilt or midnight runs on the treadmill, alright?”

          “Won’t we need forks?” Mycroft inquired, neatly sidestepping an agreement.

          Greg slid one firm palm under the box and slipped the other arm around Mycroft, petting his belly lightly. Mycroft realized with some embarrassment that he was nude except for his wrinkled shirt and his tie, the rest of his clothes abandoned on the floor, his waistcoat nowhere immediately to be seen. And as for Greg…he looked down at his lover’s body, mostly bare, aside from his socks and a pink Oxford mysteriously missing all of its buttons. Mycroft didn’t even _recall_ ripping it. He licked his lips, “Why shan’t we need forks?” he prompted again.

          “Cuz,” Greg growled, nuzzling behind his ear, “We’re gonna use each other as plates, and forks would just get in the way.”

          “Dear God,” Mycroft said faintly. “I think you just cut my refractory period in half.”

          “Too right,” Greg flirted, slapping his bare flank, “Now get that pert arse up those stairs, Mr. Holmes. Your boyfriend’s sweet tooth is aching.”

         

         

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr @savvyblunders


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